The Price of Aid
by Riftshade
Summary: Not all monsters cause problems. Not all of them target humans for sport, or dabble in darkness in such a way that it may bring about utter destruction if completed, but enough of them have that a need for hunters came about. Enough of them have given the rest a bad rap - and it's that unfortunate lot he is looking to protect.


As the thundering footfalls at his back began to fade, the escapee heaves a sigh of relief, yet he dare not move quite yet. No, he is smarter than that. For all he knew, it may be a trap, some crudely-crafted plan by his pursuers to lure him into a false net of security before taking their opportunity to pounce. It is hardly a far stretch. Hunters were good at that sort of thing, as he'd learned over the years, and - truth be told, were he in their position, that is precisely what he would do, so it is undoubtedly in his better interests to stay put, relatively safe and sound in the shadowed alcove off the main tunnel line. Not the best location. He hates it down there, but for his own sake, there is little choice. To craft his lair elsewhere - a haven true to the name, not the apartment he now owns, which serves only to further the 'human' masquerade he plays - would be foolish endeavor, for anyone might stumble upon it, on the discarded skin and flesh, stained clothing, and possessions left behind by those unfortunate enough to garner his interest. Such things do not bode well for one like himself, thus a little discomfort is well-worth it; at least, until that uncomfortable sanctuary is breached by a pair of hunters dead set on destroying him.

They shared the same goal, he and them. One of his own was stirring up trouble, killing humans one-by-one, night after night, for no other purpose than its own sadistic pleasure. Two separate news stations reported the incidents, and each one shared one similarity: the alleged culprit was elsewhere that evening, with a rock-solid alibi to back him/her up, and yet their face appeared on security footage, or their unmistakable DNA was found at the scene. In theory, no one is capable of being two places at once, or so it's said. Suppose that the ones enforcing that thought were unaware of the creatures sharing the streets, creatures who could indeed make such things possible - so, of course it caught his attention, for one reason and one reason alone. A few murdered humans are hardly a concern; where six die, fifteen more take their places, so it is isn't like they're a dying breed. No, instead, it is the baggage that comes along with six dead humans. The police, the media, and most importantly, the hunters. Hearing a story like that one on the news is bound to attract attention and send the bastards flooding into the city. They know what they're searching for - a shapeshifter, but that is generally the extent of their concerns. Kill a shapeshifter, kill a couple of them, and maybe luck will eliminate the problematic one. Or, maybe it will send a message to said one, and the killings will stop. At the very least, it's a reason to needlessly slaughter his kin, and Markus will have none of that. Most of those he's met are benign, or civil if nothing else, entirely undeserving of such a fate. What a shame it is that one bad apple can spoil the bunch.

So, that's where he steps in. While a majority of the hunters he has found are hell-bent on destroying any and all monsters they find, a few can be reasoned with. A few are able to see that eliminating a problem at its heart is time and effort better spent, and if they're willing to strike a deal - usually involving their immediate and peaceful departure after the troublesome shifter falls - then he is willing to lend a hand in the job, dropping leads where he can, standing at their side as back-up during the final confrontation, things of that nature. It has happened a few times, which in turn spared numerous others like himself their untimely demise. All it took was a little cooperation, and that is the one thing the hunters previously on HIS tail were unwilling to offer. They seemed to take his mimicry of the local traffic cop as reason to fire at will and pursue when the shifter turned tail to flee; no potential deal with worth the trouble, he realized, as a bullet grazed his shoulder and burned like hell . Silver, he assumed, and it was unlikely that many shots to follow would miss like that one had, so he took off with two of the four in hot pursuit. He'd lost them now, apparently, but that was a close call. Now, it's in his best interests to lay low.

They had gotten a good view of this form which, unfortunately, meant he shouldn't keep it. If they saw him on the street, it would lead to this same scenario all over again, and Mark isn't entirely sure he can lose them so easily a second time, so it leaves one valid choice. His preferred form is one relatively well-known to the general populace of this area, which would make it ten times easier to blend in and pass unnoticed when one is 'just another guy' among his peers. And, if that failed, numerous friends, family, family friends, and the like lived nearby, if his bearings were correct, so he'd have some shelter and someone to vouch for him, if push came to shove. So, that settled it; he'd shift, as quickly and as quietly as possible.

Bearing that in mind, he works quickly, all but tearing at the buttons of the uniform shirt until he's able to drop it to the ground. Next comes the white shirt beneath it and all the rest, kicked aside for use later when he made the final leg of his escape. Both hands come to rest on the grimy brick beside him, fingertips curling against the rugged surface. Blunt nails began to break from his flesh, scraped away by the friction, with trails of blood in their wake. The hing of his jaw cracks as his mouth opens wide, teeth popping from their sockets with a wet, sickening click and dropping to the dingy puddle beneath his feet. His body shudders, bones twisting and morphing beneath layers of muscle and skin, stretching from the lean frame of the officer to his own broader physique; it nearly wrenches a cry from his throat, but self-preservation is a hell of a motivator. Any sound to leave his lips could draw the very attention he's looking to lose, so it surfaces as nothing but a pitched growl under his breath, audible only just over the crack of joints. Almost done, almost…

It's the final piece he dreads, the last few moments of agony drawn out as skin stretches and cracks, tears in places and falls off where it is stretched the tightest. Bloodied fingers reach to touch a slit above his ear, grazing the torn edge before sinking deep and pulling hard so the flesh gives way. Breaks off at the start of his shoulder and is thrown to the ground. The next patch tears off his chest, then the opposite side of his reborn face, and down, down, down…By the end of it, he trembles from the combination of pain, exertion, and effort required to keep his agonized cries to a himself. Naked and cold, blue eyes find the puddle he'd stood in, its waters tinged red and littered with disintegrating teeth, but he finds what he sought nonetheless; his reflection. The short black hair, square jaw, and broad shoulders he wore with confidence. It is a face familiar not only to him but to others who would, in a few minutes, surround him, thus it would be his safest bet. The man in the reflection is just that - a man. Not a monster, not a creature capable of peeling skin and changing bones, but a mere man, the youngest son of a businessman, as well-known as the rest of his family to neighbors and citizens sharing their grand city. And that's his best chance at safety.

So, once nerves have calmed and his tremors ceased, Markus gathers the discarded clothing; pants and shoes, and only the undershirt, as those can pass as casual clothing when worn alone. If he opted to keep the uniform as is, it'd give him away in a heartbeat. Any fool could see that, so he leaves the over-shirt beside the pile of gore left behind by his transformation. That, the hunters would undoubtedly stumble across in time, but he would be long, long gone, if he had any say in the matter. Dressing as quickly as he can, he slips from the alcove, keeping to the ledge right beside the dirty walls to avoid the countless puddles of water littering the center of the sewer tunnels (at least, he thinks - hopes it's just water). With a few minutes of wandering, he stumbles upon a ladder attached to the brick, leading to a manhole cover which would then bring him to the the streets above. Precisely where, he's not sure, but anything is better than this. A quick check around him for movement or the flash of lights, and he's up the rungs, carefully easing the cover aside with one hand to peer out the gap created.

Clear. Or, rather, clear enough that he's willing to shove the cast iron entirely out of the way and haul himself up with haste. Before any passersby can happen to notice the scene, he has everything back in place, and is out on the street, integrating with the flow of foot traffic to pass as the average citizen. No sign of his pursuers as of yet, so he just might have lost them completely. Even so, he best head home. The less he's on in public eye, the less likely it is that they'll track him down. Besides, he could use a little R&R. The night had gone to hell so quickly, it seemed the perfect time to pop that bottle of Scotch, and plan his next move.

* * *

Hey there, and thank you SO much for taking a few minutes to read through this!

Originally, this was posted as a drabble on my roleplaying blog for this particular

character, my darling Markus Turati, but as I was writing it, I started getting ideas for an

actual fic, and so...well, here we are! Any comments, input, & pointers are greatly,


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